The First Breath After Coma
by Detective In Training
Summary: After three years, four months, eighteen days and seven hours, Sherlock returns home. As he walks he considers how to apologise to John, but nothing can prepare him for how it will really go.


Three years, four months, eighteen days and seven hours. That is precisely the amount of time that has taken Sherlock to return to England, to 221b Baker Street, to John. All loose ends have been tied up – not neatly, because it had been harrowing, dangerous and painful. But after all this hunting, searching and waiting, finally it was done and there was nothing more keeping Sherlock from coming home.

He'd ignored Mycroft's offer to send a car to fetch him from the airport, preferring instead to take a double-decker, to feel the familiar London air on his face and in his hair, and to think. Three years should have been enough time to think for most people, but then Sherlock was not most people. He'd pushed every single thought of what was happening in England or would happen when he'd return to instead focus all his energy and ability on the present. He'd become a murder machine – digging, burrowing, further, deeper into the web of crime until he'd eliminated the last evil shadow of Moriarty. Now, however, as the bus drew him closer and closer to Baker Street, he couldn't keep all the repressed thoughts, feelings and emotions from ravaging his orderly mind. Each new corner, each passed street brought flashes of his old cases – there was the roof he and John had climbed to hunt down the ringleader of the Leather Glove gang; over there was the restaurant behind whose back door a human trafficking agency had been secreted; and there, right there was the little Chinese shop where John had bought that waving cat figurine.

Wave after wave of emotions flooded through him, pounding at, and finally unlocking that dark, hidden nook in which Sherlock kept his guilt and sorrow for having unleashed this undue pain upon John. Mycroft, of course, had kept him suitably informed – John's limp was back, he had visited four different therapists and kept none because they kept pressuring him to move on, he'd almost quit his job a number of times, and no, he hadn't dated anyone in those three years.  
As foreign as Sherlock was to human emotion, even he comprehended the anguish that John must have felt, also for the fact that he too was numbed and pained by it. At least he had his mission to keep him going. His own life didn't matter as long as he would protect John, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade. Before Moriarty had cruelly spelled it out, Sherlock didn't even know he had so many people who were his… _friends._ And it had crushed him seeing John standing there underneath St. Bart's, a tiny figure - hand outstretched as far as possible reaching for Sherlock, pain lining every crevice of his face, his scream of anguish tearing the air. The crumpled figure praying for Sherlock to be alive over his grave was so wounded, so torn that Sherlock almost hadn't recognized the proud, brave soldier who had always been by his side.

And suddenly, as the roads, houses and offices flashed by, Sherlock realized that no matter how well he has handled his cases, how professional and efficient he is, nothing could ever prepare him for the final mission – walking through the door of 221b Baker Street. He almost felt as though he would rather face Moriarty and his henchmen singlehandedly for a hundred years than take this one, excruciating step. He shook his head scornfully at himself, feeling incredibly humbled and human.

To draw the moment out, he got up and off the bus three stops before - a tall, lone figure, collar and scarf warmly drawn up to protect him against the bitter wind, and he wished they could somehow protect him from what was about to happen. Soon, too soon. Time, more time.

What could happen? What _would_ happen? Sherlock's brilliant mind was flailing helplessly in this black pool of probability. He knew how to predict every move any person in the world could make, but not this. This was new. This was the first time his own emotions interfered, and his mind was overcome and filled by John, John's eyes, his laugh, the expression transforming his face as he'd see Sherlock standing in the doorframe.

Sherlock took a deep breath and purposefully strode away from the bus stop, each step carrying him towards uncertainty. Very well, if it's come to that Sherlock's mind would have to play out the possibilities as he walked. He'd have to try out some form of apology or explanation or…just something, anything. Ordinary people were easy to figure out – every thought running through their heads was plainly written across their faces, but not John. He was unreadable, inexplicable and quite unbelievably the strangest mystery Sherlock had ever faced. Sherlock sighed as he tried to picture the first possible outcome. Sherlock would smoothly stride inside the flat, calling out to John to make him a cup of tea saying 'Sorry I've been away – had a few things to settle'… Oh God, no, no, NO, YOU IDIOT! Emotions, _yes_, people showed emotions when something incredible happened so he should have a go at those. Scenario number two… A quiet knock at the door, a few tears, some sniffling and constant apologizing – 'John, I'm so sorry I hurt you, I had to, I've missed you, I'll make it up to you, please forgive me!' And John would instantly fly from his armchair and cry and forgive Sherlock. NO, NO, NO even worse! John would not only be freaked out but he'd instantly see through Sherlock's bluffing. Overdoing it would be deadly!

People hurried past Sherlock, quickly pulling their children along and he realized he'd been talking out loud, muttering and gesturing wildly.  
Okay, change of tactic, a quiet, calm and collected scientific poise would be required; he'd unlock the door, walk inside, hands outstretched to warn and calm John and quickly, hurriedly run him through the facts, making him see that what Sherlock did was indeed for John's own good. And John would be rational and understand, and sit Sherlock down, fetch him tea and ask him to explain everything in greater detail. Hmm…possibly. But, wait, no! John had always berated him for being too remote and detached. This called for the perfect balance of tactful emotions and scientific calm. He'd stride upstairs and cough awkwardly to draw John's attention. When that would happen, John would probably lower his newspaper and wait for Sherlock to say something, and so he'd step forward to the middle of the living room and apologise; then he'd take off his coat and scarf and perch on the sofa as John would anxiously await Sherlock's explanation for his absence. And Sherlock would…

He broke off his thought pattern as his foot touched the first step of their house. Three years, four months, eighteen days and seven hours and thirty-four minutes. Something emanating from the brick wall was pulling him in, yet every nerve and sinew inside was screaming to leave. Swallowing the anxiety, he steeled himself, pushing the fact that he hadn't decided on a tactic to the back of his mind. He'd let his instinct do the talking for a change. That's what people did after all, no? What was that phrase they'd use? Trust your gut? Bah, what rubbish – one's gut can't think or feel, so how is it meant to make decisions? But that's what he'd have to do… So Sherlock tried to stow some minuscule amount of faith in his gut and slowly, carefully and deliberately climbed the seventeen steps leading to their door.

The door-handle burns in his hand. Scorches. Still time to turn around. Muscles push down on the metal. Hinges turn. Door is now ajar. Quietly. Silently. Stand inside. Don't make a sound. Don't break the spell. Look around. Look at what you've missed. Not a thing touched. Nothing out of place after three years. Dusted. But untouched. A new tea stain on the table. Carpet is worn on the tracks where John has paced nightly with his cane. Violin and bow are in his armchair. Skull on fireplace. John sitting in his usual place. Facing the other empty armchair. Fingers steepled. Hair slightly grizzled and greyed. Eyes closed and hollow. Cheekbones stand out from not eating.

'…_John'_

And before he can blink or think of what to say next, there are thick, warm arms holding him, warm, soft lips crushing his, warm wetness brushing his cheeks, and he knows that no apology or explanation is needed. He is _home_.


End file.
